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emmanation

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Archive for the ‘lady bits’ Category

written all over it

Wednesday, May 20th, 2015

Last night I had the perfect thing to write about. It occurred to me while I was peeing. Then the night went of the rails in a minor way, and I lost my whole fun and fancy idea. Today, all I wanted was to get the idea back (cause I been low on things-I-wanna-write-about lately) so I tried peeing and thinking, but that didn’t get me anywhere. Then the next time I peed, I tried peeing while not thinking. No love.

There’s a part at the beginning (maybe?) of Firestarter that’s about people peeing in their pants, did you know that? (FRANCO AS THE 11/22/63 PERSON WHAT ALSO). Stephen King wrote something about us being conditioned as young’uns to not pee while clothed. Accurate, right? Definition of potty training right there. He claimed, in the book, that grown ups are actually busted and can’t actually do it even if they try (where, again, it is peeing in their pants. If you’d asked me how many times I thought I’d write that phrase today when I woke up this morning I would have guessed significantly fewer than the 2 I’ve already hit.)

I really want to try.

I am a grown up woman with a healthy bladder. I don’t have the thing that some of my mama friends have where they pee (in their pants (3)) sometimes when they giggle or cough because of the bag of flour sized baby that came through their nether regions. I am actually free of incontinence of any kind as far as  I know.

What I’m trying to say is that I was under ten the last time I peed in my pants (4) and I had been playing outside with my friends and didn’t want to go inside to pee and I basically just waited until there was more pee than bladder, I think.

Could I do that now?

Stephen King isn’t exactly a medical expert, but I have to assume he usually doesn’t make shit like that up. He must have researched it or something, because otherwise why include it? As far as I recall, pants peeing (4.5) wasn’t integral to the story, so …

Yeah. Pee. Pants. (5)

Seriously, though, I have wondered this off and on since reading the book at 14. If anyone has any insight, hit me up. Otherwise eventually I am going to be my own guinea pig and any outcome of an experiment where I try to pee in my own pants (6) ends with me on the losing end.

I might’ve known it would be red

Tuesday, February 17th, 2015

The bathroom at work that inspired my ‘common sense’ (i.e. wash your hands where I tell you to because I’m bossy) post has recently been the site of three new short episodes. The first two are weird, the third is gross and the primary topic here. Just warning everyone.

The first two are best represented by the IMs I sent immediately after they happened:

me: I was just in the bathroom and a woman came in and went into a stall and said OW a bunch of times and then started singing
friend: Ewww WTF
me: I have no idea

it was SO WERID
weird
she must have had drinks at lunch or something
I can’t think of any other explanation
or she’s having a stroke
?
friend: I hope nothing scary is happening with her lady parts
me: she seemed generally pleased

despite the ‘ow‘s

It was true. The ow’s were somehow not troublesome. More like pulling off an  irritating bandaid that you’re super pleased to no longer have on your skin.

No one was found in the bathroom later having suffered from a stroke.

Second thing: 

me: WHAT IS HAPPENIN
ok
so I was just in the same bathroom where the lady said ow ow ow the other day?
and there was someone who I am 85% sure was different
whispering to herself in the stall!
same friend: that is so weird
that bathroom makes people crazy!
me: the only thing I heard was ‘well that is disappointing’ but there was a LOT

Third thing. Same bathroom. (If you’re a man who knows me, just be aware this is about to get period-y. I don’t care if you read it as long as you don’t whine about it being yucky after I obviously forewarned you.)

I’ve been using a diva cup off and on for a couple of years, maybe? (Diva cup: a little cuppy thing you stick up into your vagina to collect menstrual blood. You change it every 8 – 12 hours unless you’re me in which case you change it once a day because a) I bleed a lot compared to how much I used to because of this dumb IUD but not actually that much in the grand scheme of things and b) I’m gross.) I would use it every day of every period if I could, but some days it doesn’t work, somehow. Like, you have to fold it and twist it and stuff and some days it just doesn’t fold and twist and you get tired of sticking silicone into yourself and spinning it around and pulling it back out, so you give up.

A couple of months ago, I took it out in the shower and my hand slipped while I was holding it and it hit the ground and bounced and I was covered in blood. It was very, very Carrie.

This morning was one of the not twisting and spinning and holding mornings. My damn period is almost over, so I put in a pantyliner and moved on with my day. It went fine (although I forgot deodorant because COME ON, there are only so many things a woman can remember on a given morning) but this afternoon I sneezed and I got that unpleasant ‘gosh something just came out of me’ feeling. (If you don’t know that feeling, that’s fine, but I suspect that means you’re a prepubescent woman or one of the aforementioned men who didn’t heed my warning. For you guys, it’s like … um, ok you know how sometimes you sneeze and you can tell a bunch of spit came out of your mouth? That’s the best I can do.)  I was wearing a red skirt. Red, good, skirt, bad, so I hightailed it to the bathroom to see what the damage was.

Minimal. However. The pantyliner had put up a good fight, but was ready for honorable discharge. I hadn’t brought any replacements to work, much less to the bathroom (downside of the diva cup, you get lazy) so I re-dressed and fiddled for a quarter. I tried the pad dispenser. It returned my quarter. I tried the tampon dispenser. It kept my quarter but gave me no tampon.

There was no option left for me but to build a toilet paper contraption that would last me until I found a better solution. You know the one – a wad of TP, with a long piece wrapped around it and the crotch of your underwear to hold it in place? Yeah, that one. As I was wrapping

deep breath

as I was wrapping, someone came in, and I realized that I had been muttering to myself.

I was talking to myself in the crazy talk to yourself bathroom. What was I saying? Don’t even know. Probably something about ow and being disappointed?

 

it’s just common sense

Thursday, January 8th, 2015

Every day something happens to me at work and I think I should write about this! And then every time I start writing I think jeez louis I should one-hundred percent write about something better.

But now is the time for this subject to shine.

I do not like to enter a bathroom stall immediately after someone else left it if I have a choice. I don’t know why. My high school friend Sandra pointed out that a lot of folks (women? perhaps this is less an issue for men because of the less frequent use of stalls? or more of an issue because of the almost definite purpose of stalls?) feel that way and that it’s dumb, because in a public restroom you are almost always putting your naked butt right where someone else’s naked butt has been very recently.

This is very true, and yet. Is it the distinct ass warmth that puts us off? I mean on the one hand … eww, stranger’s ass warmth. On the other hand, warm seat!

Oh! I just remembered that it wasn’t actually going into a stall after someone else that Sandra was talking about. She was talking about how if someone doesn’t flush, even pee, we all avoid that stall. Like, we definitely know someone was peeing in there but we don’t want to KNOW know.

Sandra gave this a lot of thought.

Anyway.

On my floor of my building, the layout is very handy in all the restrooms in that there is a sink for every stall. Great for hand washing if several women are in there, but also

and this is my big point so pay attention

IF we could all agree to use the sink that corresponds to whatever stall we just exited, we could effectively signal everyone else in the bathroom. No one entering would have to carefully listen for the direction of the finishing flush, or partially enter a stall only to see the swirling water and then decide on the fly whether to back out or just own it.

See, I told you I think about this a lot.

There is literally no reason this wouldn’t work, as long as everyone knew it was a thing. It’s like that great yellow ribbon on a dog’s collar thing. (Yes Agnes is leash aggressive. Yes I would like to fix that but haven’t been consistent enough to do so yet. Since the move I’m lucky if I remember a bag (they were handily provided at the apartment complex!) much less the cookies with which to distract/reward her when other dogs pass.)

So, let’s do ourselves a favor, ladies. Draw the shortest line from your stall to a sink when you’re done peeing, and use that sink. If someone is standing there, explain to her the movement. OUR movement. Eventually the most-recently-used-stall guessing game will be a thing of the past, and wouldn’t we all be better off?

(Of course I managed to write 500 words about this. Of course I did.)

JOIN ME, SISTERS.

you look at how many?

Thursday, August 14th, 2014

I know I’ve been writing about *ahem* … body stuff a lot lately. This post is going to have a lot of lady-body related words and if that’s not your thing, then just carry on with your bad self and I’ll see you in a couple of days.

Today I went to the gynecologist and it was hilarious.

To me.

So first things first. Going to the gynecologist is not, in and of itself, hilarious. It’s kind of terrible. If you’re personally familiar with a speculum, then you know whereof I speak. If you don’t know about a speculum and you have a vagina, then get thee to a doctor, girl. If you don’t have a vagina but you’ve been to a proctologist, I’m guessing it’s not that different? If that also does not apply to you, I think you’re probably 14 and you shouldn’t be reading this blog but hey, think about when your orthodontist puts those big, cold, metal tools in your mouth and it’s uncomfortable but it doesn’t last that long.

I’ve had the same lady-bits-doctor since I have had a lady-bits-doctor. I don’t remember exactly how old I was but probably 14 or 15? She’s a member of the practice that the man who delivered me belonged to, actually. (He has since retired.) Best estimate, I’ve been seeing her for close to twenty years.

Home town loyalty, baby.

So today, she tells me that her daughter just had her first pap. (The pap is the thing that requires the speculum. Other things might require speculums but those things are not on my radar and I’m more than pleased to keep it that way.)

I think oh that’s adorable.

Then she says, “She’s 21, and while she was getting it she realized that that is what I do all day”.

Who doesn’t realize that their gynecologist mother does paps all day by the time they’re 21? Do gynecologists not have bring your daughter to work day?

I totally would have let a ten year old girl be in the room eleven years ago. As long as she stood by my head.

So then my doc, I think in an effort to relax me because I freaking hate laying there staring at the ceiling with my feet in stirrups (like how I say that like I’m the only one with that feeling?), tells me that she’s been volunteering at the 9news health fair for a few years and she does 25 paps between the hours of 8 am and noon on a single day.

My immediate reaction was to say, ‘wow, that’s a lot of vaginas’. I mean, she was between my legs. If I were allowed to make dumb jokes at any time in my life, it is that time. However, when I thought about saying it I waffled over the use of the word vagina. Should I say ‘vulva’, since that’s what’s actually in her face? Should I say ‘cervix’, since that’s what I think she’s looking at while she’s using the speculum (word of the day!)? I was talking to a professional and I overthought it and then boom, she was telling me I could sit up and my moment had passed.

But still. 25 vulvas in four hours.

SO MANY VULVAS.